Spoonfuls of Comfort and Time

Recently, the weather turned chilly and rainy creating a desire for cornbread and homemade soup. Thinking of re-creating my mother’s traditional autumn soup brought to mind the story of “Stone Soup” and inspired me to write this poem. Never the same, each soup composed of bits and pieces that make the whole. You think of the story of stone soup, where each neighbor adds something to the stranger’s stone boiling in a huge pot till there’s a rich broth that all can share– Soup is community and comfort. It’s what you make when you have nothing, and what you cook when you have more. It soothes on an autumn night or when you have the flu. You remember your mother and the fragrant steam rising to your runny nose, tears, and grateful stomach. You think that generations fill each bowl with borscht or matzo balls--soup made with your own twist, say of lentils and spices. Beets sometimes dance with peppers, cinnamon, cumin, and tomatoes– All cargo carried by migrations and wars, time captured in a kettle. You taste history with every spoonful— sweet, sour, bitter, salty, like primordial soup giving life. It’s the soup of your ancestors and you sustain it.